


South Side and Logan

by Rossie_H



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Best Friends, Bi-Polar, Bipolar Disorder, Blow Jobs, Boyfriends, Boys In Love, Character Death, Chicago (City), Coming Out, Death, Developing Relationship, Drama, Drama & Romance, Established Relationship, Explicit Language, Falling In Love, Family, Fighting, First Love, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Friendship/Love, Gay Male Character, Gay Sex, Homosexuality, Jealous Kuroo Tetsurou, Kissing, Love, Love Confessions, Love at First Sight, M/M, MMA, Making Love, Making Out, Male Homosexuality, Mental Health Issues, Minor Character Death, Protectiveness, Romance, Serious Injuries, Sex, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Smut, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-15 07:47:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29185773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rossie_H/pseuds/Rossie_H
Summary: When Kenma starts high school at Jones College Prep in Chicago, Illinois, he isn't sure what to expect. As a kid from the South side, he's out of his comfort zone—that is until he crosses paths with Kuroo, a kid who makes him feel like anything but south side trash.But Kenma has demons to battle, demons left behind from a past and parent no longer here. Will he let Kuroo in, or will he hide himself away in the neighborhood he's always known for the rest of his life?
Relationships: Azumane Asahi/Nishinoya Yuu, Hinata Shouyou/Kageyama Tobio, Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru, Kozume Kenma/Kuroo Tetsurou, Sawamura Daichi/Sugawara Koushi, Tsukishima Kei/Yamaguchi Tadashi
Comments: 13
Kudos: 31





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, guys. Hello! 
> 
> New story! Tell me what you think, if you like it, if I should keep going? 
> 
> I miss you guys and I really hope you enjoy this piece. It's been fun to write so far! 
> 
> Happy 2021...hopefully. <3

**FOURTEEN YEARS OLD**

Though the hole is larger than he’d imagined, still, it seems tight. Too tight for a box, for a body. For his mothers body. 

It’s cold and he’s bundled in his step-father’s thrift store coat—the one with burn marks from his fallen cigarette ashes and stains from his splashed whiskey. It smells putrid, as if it too should be buried alongside his mother. 

But honestly, to bury the nasty thing in there with her seems more cruel than the hole that she doesn’t deserve; because she doesn’t deserve the hole or the coat. 

She deserves life. She deserves to feel the cold he’s cursing right now, to feel the wind and to hear the sirens still somehow heard when even this far from the heart of the city. 

Beside him, Ryu is colder than the weather here in Chicago. He’s stale, completely unbothered by the sniffles of her friends, of the few cousins of hers still alive who cared to come. Who cared when they received Kenma’s letter regarding her passing. 

Bi-polar was never a phrase he’d heard his mother speak of in his fourteen years, the word disorder even more foreign. He knew nothing of what it meant, or all it entailed, knew nothing of what it meant to have a disease which couldn’t be healed with antibiotics or Advil. 

But what he did know was that his mother was tired. She was tired of trying, tired of her life—the one passed down to her from her mother and her mother before her. He knew she had mood swings, “ _like all women do_ ”, as Ryu would say. He knew she’d have the highest of moments followed by moments so low, Kenma believed she could shake the devil’s hand if she reached far enough. 

But for Kenma, to wake up to pancakes in the morning only to find his mother dead in the bathtub in the afternoon—the word bi-polar didn’t seem good enough. It didn't seem like an explanation at all when the ambulance arrived only to pronounce her dead a few minutes later. 

Ryu knew, he said. Apparently, he knew she was fucked in the head. 

But how didn’t he? Her own son, how didn’t Kenma know what she was or what she felt when Ryu—the drunk who ran the bar on Lincoln who only visited his mother at night when even the street lights started to fade—knew? 

It didn’t seem fair. It wasn’t fair, isn’t fair. 

Which brings him back to the hole, her casket made of plastic and lined fake satin whining as it’s lowered into the ground right before his eyes.

He would never see again. Not her, only Ryu, in that gross house with browned toilets and yellowed sheets. In that house where the fridge is always far too empty and only quiet when the L train stops running for the night. 

That house he’d hate but live in, broke and sad just like his dead mother, until he too joined her in an undeserved, too tight, hole in the ground. 

**FIFTEEN YEARS OLD**

A year later and he’s starting high school. It’s 6a.m, but Ryu and his crack-whore of a girlfriend are naked and playing bingo on the couch, as if it was spring break in Miami and they had all the time in the world. 

Kenma eyes Sheila’s naked ass plastered to his mothers couch. The couch she and Kenma stole when he was seven from old lady Susanna a few blocks over when she was smack-dab in the middle of her fourth round of spring cleaning. The couch where they played bingo, where they fell asleep watching horror movies until the sun came up, Kenma exhausted but still high from the thrill of it all. The couch where she’d sleep for months without moving, crying into pillows Kenma would have to toss because of mold and stench. 

He shakes his mother from his head and clears his throat. 

Ryu and Sheila halt their laughter, eyeing him as if his interruption was an inconvenience. Ryu reaches for his beer, something akin to water and wheat. “What the fuck do you want?” 

Kenma rolls his eyes and tugs on the strap of his backpack. “Breakfast.” 

“There’s eggs in the fridge, you lazy shit.” 

Sheila laughs while slapping Ryu’s chest, the man smirking while staring at the way her tits jiggle. “You promised you’d make him food!” 

“Well, I lied then, huh?” Ryu picks, leaping on top of the hooker as if she were a meal to devour. 

Kenma taps his toes on the wood and nods, inching his way down the stairs towards the kitchen while ignoring Sheila’s boastful moaning and exposed ass—not that he’s interested anyways. Not that he feels anything for anyone anymore. 

Opening the fridge, as always, it’s empty. Empty besides beer, sugar soaked orange juice, half an apple, and a carton of eggs. He looks at the clock, its face cracked, hung over the sink.

6:10a.m. Bus comes at 6:20a.m.

He chooses the apple and without another word, leaves out the back door.

The snow outside is high and dirty, this entire neighborhood is dirty, and Kenma just wants out. Out of the slums, out of the hell he was born into and left with. Slipping into frozen snow boots, his bleached hair curtained in front of his eyes as he winces while squeezing into him, he thinks about where he could steal a new pair. 

He’s small, so he could steal another pair from the kids down the street who go through shoes like toothpicks. But even though he’s small, they’re smaller, and by the end of the week, his toes are always either blue or blistered, and it just doesn’t seem worth it. 

He could snatch a pair from the Salvation Army, but Richard, the new manager, just installed new cameras, and Kenma’s face is already well known by the cops in this area. 

He hears the squeak of bus wheels. He knows he should rush. But he doesn’t. Not even as the bus comes to a stop at his front door. The kids on board are loud and rambunctious and Kenma is anything but.

He makes eye contact with the bus driver. She pouts. He raises an eyebrow. She looks away, and that’s when the bus disappears. Kenma looks up. No snow today. 

With frozen boots, he decides to just say fuck it, and walk. 

***

Even though Kenma is broke trash, he’s not stupid. He’s quick, he’s good with numbers, and also, he’s making these pompous bastards look like absolute fools. 

It’s the first day, sure. But the questions on this prelim quiz—much like this school in general—are made for kids who know a thing or two about simple algebra, simple calc. This school is one of the most prestigious college prep high schools in the city, Jones College Prep, a school which takes kids from all over Chicago to impress the Educational Boards of America that their students are smart enough to do something with their inner-city lives. 

Kenma applied, not thinking he'd actually be accepted, but more than pleasantly surprised when he was. This was never a plan he had, applying for a school of this rank. But after his mother’s passing, he knew if he ever had any chance of making it out of that hell hole with Ryu, this was that chance. And to leave Ryu, he would do anything he could. 

The school, while old and established, is pampered with the new. New structures, modern decor, large glass windows which overlook the homeless that cross the streets every hour or so; but still, this is Chicago, and you can’t hide from what’s real for very long. 

To Kenma’s surprise, all walks of life live here. Fresh faces, hard faces, faces that have never known hardship in their life. Rich, average, poor, liars, thieves, whores—they’re all here, and somehow, it does settle Kenma’s nerves a bit. 

He finishes his test first, confident of his answers, which are graded right in front of his face as he slams his test onto the teachers desk. The man—Mr. Shaw—eyes him through thick, square glasses, obviously made of China plastic and cheap lenses, and flips the test around in order to grade; and as he does, Kenma can see the man gulping with each correct answer he checks. 

Check mark after check mark, and Kenma smirks. Until—

“Nah. That’s right,” he points, voice louder than expected as Mr. Shaw draws his first X. 

He hears the scratch of pencils and the typing of answers halt behind him. 

_Fuck._

Again, he’s eyed. “Excuse me?” 

“Your question is wrong, but I’m right.” 

A sigh, but it’s layered with interest. “How can my question be wrong but your answer be right?” 

Kenma points at the wording of the question. “Here. It’s worded wrong.” 

“Worded?” 

“There’s a typo.” 

“ _Typo_?” 

“Yes, you prick. You know, when your finger slips?” 

A snort from behind him stirs Kenma’s attention, and when he looks over his shoulder at the outrageously tall Japanese man in the middle row, he pretends the man isn’t the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. 

Another deep, long, blatantly annoyed sigh. But Shaw continues. “And where is my typo?” 

Kenma points. “Here. You typed 64. But the answer is 65. If 19 people are getting off the train, that’s negative 19, and if 17 people are getting on the train, well, that’s plus 17, meaning that there was a net loss of two people. If there are 63 people on the train now, that means there were 65 to begin with. Not 64. If you’re gonna steal a 2nd grade viral math question from the internet, at least get the numbers right, yeah?” Kenma snatches his paper from Shaw’s hand and scratches out the X, replacing it with a check mark. 

He hands the paper back to Shaw, who’s hesitant before taking the test from Kenma’s hands. “Your name was—” 

“Kenma,” he says, looking again over his shoulder only to find that tall, mysterious creature eyeing him as well. 

“Kenma. You’re from the—”

“Southside. What, you want my phone number too?” 

Another round of snorts echoes from behind him. 

He smirks while Shaw files the test in his drawer. “You’re smart. Obviously. But you’re arrogant, and in this school, you’ll find that’s already of high abundance. Keep your wits to yourself, and get the hell out of my classroom.” 

Kenma tugs on his strap and nods with a salute. “Yes, sir, Mr. Shaw, sir,” he squints, looking back once more at the boy who’s now fully captured Kenma’s attention. 

Kenma is eyed, and it’s alluring. 

He keeps it to remember for later. 

***

Kenma, his brain fried but actually challenged for the first time in his life, watches the last bus leave the curb as the bustle of kids behind him slowly drones into the distance. He looks back at the high school, the massive structure intimidating, but alluring—much like the eyes of the boy he unconsciously searched for all throughout his first day of big boy school.

He grunts, and digs into his backpack for a smoke. A nasty habit. One that belonged to both Ryu and his mother, and now him. 

“I’ve heard those kill.” 

Kenma finishes lighting the cigarette when he turns to meet those eyes he so desperately longed for all day; and instantly, his facade fades, and the shyness he likes to pretend he’s beaten falls heavy onto his shoulders. 

He quickly looks away, puffs the smoke, and sighs. “So does processed food, but there’s a damn White Castle on every corner.” 

“Well, if you ask me, people who are going to White Castle on purpose are just looking to die.” 

Kenma laughs, though it’s quiet and coughed into his sleeve.

He can’t bring himself to make full eye contact, but he does sneak in a couple of glances, and when he does, he can see this man is even more breathtaking than originally believed. He’s tall—like street lamp height—and has spiked asphalt hair that carries streaks of dark blue that haunt whenever the sun hits him right. And he’s fit, arms thick and pulsing beneath the button down he’s wearing far too unbuttoned for Kenma’s heart and cock to handle. 

But it’s his eyes—those damn eyes that followed him in memory like a hawk all day—that are even more striking up close. Though lazy, they’re frighteningly strong, each blink full of intent and tease and rapture, and Kenma suddenly feels dizzy. 

The kid kicks at the sidewalk with the tip of his toe, his white shoes scuffed from the habit that like Kenma, he probably also has; and Kenma can’t help but feel...connected in a way. 

“You uh, your eyes. They remind me of a cat.” 

The boy snickers. “Is that supposed to be a race joke?”

“I’m Japanese too, how’s that racist?” 

Leaning, the kid finds Kenma’s eyes with purpose, with longing. “Kenma, right? Your name?” 

A blush comes on, and again, Kenma tries to cough it away. “Mhmm.”

A hand to his chest, “I’m Kuroo. Kuroo Tetsurō. I’m uh,” he stops, eyes now locked with Kenma’s and when he swallows, Kenma can feel his lips part. Can feel his mind slump to mush and his heart skip many, many beats. Finally, Kuroo continues. “Southside, huh? I live over in Logan.” 

Kenma also vomits. “L-Logan Square?” 

Kuroo nods. “That a problem?” 

Kenma squares his small, short shoulders. “Nah. You gotta problem, me being from the Southside?” 

Kuroo shrugs. “Why would I?” 

Kenma eyes Kuroo. His jersey, his coat, his jeans. “We’re not exactly, uh, cut from the same mold, now are we?” 

“And?” 

“And—”

“Ah, cut the shit with this poor kid, rich bitch act, alright?” Kuroo says, punching Kenma’s arm, and he can’t lie, it’s not a soft punch. “You’re interesting. You’re smart, you’re quick, you’re _short_ —” 

“—watch it—”

“—and I wanna know you.” Kenma stills, and finally, really allows himself a good, long look at Kuroo. At all he is, at all he probably isn’t. “I wanna know you, is that alright?” 

Kenma, swallowing back all he’s feeling, just nods. Nods and snuggles deeper into Ryu’s coat and his damp, stolen boots. 

Kuroo smiles. “You look cold.” Kenma again, only nods. “Wanna warm up?” 

Kenma scowls, his blush burning hotter. “The _fuck_ —”

“Do you play volleyball?” 

He takes a second to process the question, ignoring the ache in his chest. “Volleyball?” 

Kuroo furrows his brow. “You deaf or something?” 

Waving him off, “I heard you, asshole. I heard you. I—no, I’ve never played.” A lie. A big, fat lie he doesn’t know why he even told. “Why?” 

Another shrug. Another habit of Kuroo’s Kenma doesn’t hate. “I’m on a neighborhood team. We play a few blocks over. You wanna come?” 

Kenma swallows. “You want me to come and watch you play volleyball?” 

“No. I want you to _play_ volleyball _with me_ ,” he gestures, arms long and on beautiful display. 

The ache in his chest is screaming now. “I-I told you, I don’t play.” 

“Well, it’s never too late to learn,” he says, swinging his arm around Kenma’s neck. “Come on. Just...come,” he whispers, his breath against Kenma’s neck hot. 

Like fucking lava hot. 

Kenma looks at his phone, and at the time; noting the time he knows he’ll need to be home before Ryu beats his ass for not making dinner. 

But— “Fine. But I can’t be out long, alright?” 

Kuroo cheers, the stretched, meaty man hanging off Kenma like flimsy rope as he flails. “That’s the spirit!” 

***

To Kenma’s utter surprise, the kids Kuroo plays with are….incredible. 

Kenma started to play volleyball when he was five. First, just with the walls of his house, inside and out. But eventually, he took the game to the streets, to the free gyms, to the parks nearby, and after awhile, he noticed he’d become pretty good at the sport. He enjoyed it, the throbbing in his hands from spiking or the way his legs felt like wet dough after playing a match or two. He enjoyed the crowds it attracted and the way players tended to tease each other. 

And these guys? Hell, they’re no different. 

Actually, they’re better. 

Kenma’s never known so many tall kids his age in his life. From Asahi, the shy giant with locks of golden honey hair, to the tall blonde with thicker glasses than Shaw, to the smug black haired beast who only smiled at one other kid on the team named Hinata—a kid damn near as short at Kenma himself—they’re all tall, extremely fit, and well versed in knowing what it means to actually play as a team. 

It’s apparent they’ve played together for years, for they know each move the other is gonna make, and that someone—in one way or another—will always be there to save the ball. 

If possible, that is. 

Kenma also notices that they’re each skilled in their own way. Hinata is one hell of a spiker, and when combined with the kid-beast named Kageyama, it’s apparent they are absolutely unstoppable. Another shorter kid, Noya, has to be one of the best libero’s Kenma’s ever seen play, never afraid to fall or take one for the other players; but how could he be when playing with an ace like Asahi? 

He watches the others standing on the other side of the net too; the timid yet incredible server named Yamaguchi; the left blocker named Tsukki; the guys on very obviously attached at the hip, with names like Daichi and Suga, Hajime and Tooru—and then, there’s Kuroo. 

Kuroo is their leader, their glue, and it’s visible in every move, every call he makes. He knows how to command a space, how to rally his troops, he knows where someone should stand, where someone should be looking next, who’s going to be moving next, and Kenma, to say the least, is impressed. 

When Kuroo had mentioned he played on a neighborhood team, he expected amateurs, not skilled players who knew how to take control of a court.

Kenma grins from the sidelines, and it's then that Kuroo looks over and waves. “What do I need to do to get you in here, Ken?” 

“It’s Kenma,” he says, dragging on his third cigarette. “And I don’t know, handstands while jacking off, maybe?” 

“I’ve done that, not too hard actually,” squeals Hinata, and Kageyama across the court erupts into a blushed coughing fit, which stirs laughter from the rest.

Kuroo smiles. “Well, if Shrimp can do it, fuck, so can I. So get in here and play.” 

“I don’t play,” he mumbles. 

“Liar,” plays Suga from across the way. “I saw your eyes, watching, understanding. You’ve played. And you’re good too, I bet.” 

Kenma only shrugs. 

“Kenma, are you lying to me?” Kuroo pouts, arms crossing. “If you’re lying, I will be sorely disappointed.” 

“Join the club, then, of people who find me disappointing.” 

A laugh from Tooru. 

Kenma looks at his phone—Fuck. 

_FUCK._

Kenma leaps to his feet. “I uh, I have to go. I have to go right now,” he says, scrambling to collect his shit. 

Kuroo ducks beneath the net and runs for him, a hand looping around Kenma's small arm, his shadow looming but so, so comforting. “Hey, wait. Come on, you just got here,” he whispers, keeping their conversation quiet and confined. 

“I have to go.” 

“Why?” 

“Because I have shit to do. That’s why?” 

“What better shit—”

“ _Shit,_ Kuroo! I have to—” he cuts himself, fear, frustration, and anger blending into one emotion as he steams beneath Kuroo, who only watches with compassion as he cools. “I’m sorry. I’d like to stay,” he says, finally meeting Kuroo’s eyes. “But I can’t.” 

And with that, he pulls from Kuroo and races to catch the L, before he knows it’s way too fucking late. 

***

Ryu’s fist is like concrete as he punches Kenma across the face, again, three times. He loses count. 

So instead, he counts the beer cans littered across the floor. Counts the metal lids scattered like polka-dots, focuses on the stench and Sheila’s screaming, and the warmth his blood leaves as it floods his mouth. 

“You know the rule,” Ryu hollers, over and over again. “You know what time I like to eat.” 

_Then make your food, bitch._

_Then make your own food._

Ryu lifts his fist again, and Kenma knows if he takes one more, it will be lights out for the night. 

But Ryu pauses, pauses and stares down at Kenma with eyes that look almost red, and sad, and alone. 

But fuck, if Kenma cares. He kicks Ryu off him and crawls to his feet, dazed and bloody and exhausted. He spits, blood splattering at Ryu’s feet. But he doesn’t look though. He’s black out drunk and probably doesn’t see a goddamn thing. 

Sheila is crouched in the corner screaming still, and Kenma remembers his mother in a similar position when in one of her episodes—as Kenma now knows to call them—curled in a ball sobbing into a dusty blanket. 

Kenma closes his eyes and spits more blood, then turns to go wash up. He stops at the bottom of the staircase. “I’ll make dinner tomorrow.” 

Ryu scoffs. “Yes, you will.” 

Kenma nods, and climbs the stairs cursing this man and this life, and all he hopes he’ll be able to one day escape from.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there, friends! I hope you guys are enjoying the story thus far.   
> I honestly don't ever do these pieces with an uploading schedule. I kinda just write when I can and upload right after—which is also why there are often so many damn typos—so I never know when something is gonna be posted or not.   
> But usually, you can expect chapters to come out pretty quickly. Once I get on a roll with writing, it's hard for me to stop. Lucky you!....maybe? 
> 
> Anyways, here's another one. I'll try to write two more today and get those posted soon! Also....
> 
> What are somethings you'd like to see from this story? Are you already predicting anything? I'd like to know! <3

**FIFTEEN YEARS OLD**

He’s like a walking, talking sideshow as he passes the other kids flooding the crowded school hallway. Chicago alone has a population of over 2.5 million people, and Kenma swears, most of them have to be in these hallways right now. 

Every other stare that passes him is followed by a mumble, a laugh, a gasp—and Kenma soon finds himself itching for a cigarette. 

Not that he can blame them. His face looks like pummeled meat and squished blueberries, and together? Not a pleasant sight. 

“Jesus christ, Kenma!” He spins, the knock of his name a shock, and finds Suga in a state of absolute horror behind him. “Oh. Oh, no. If Kuroo sees you—”

“Why should I care what Kuroo thinks,” he battles, hiding beneath his hoodie. 

“Not what he thinks,  _ does _ . Kuroo has….eh, a bit of a temper,” he says, cupping Kenma’s shoulders to closer inspect his injuries. “These are...ripe.” 

“No shit.” 

“Will you calm down? I didn’t do this to you.” 

Kenma bites his lip. “Yeah. Yeah, I know. Sorry.” 

“It’s fine,” Suga shrugs. “With the company I’ve decided to keep, I’ve had to clean a punch in the face once or twice. Want me to at least help with the swelling and such?” 

Kenma stares at Suga, baffled and….thankful. “You don’t even know me.” 

“But you know Kuroo, and I love Kuroo. And Kuroo, he likes you. It’s a full circle. So, please. Just let me help.” 

Kenma, looking around at the eyes following him, stuck to him, finally nods and happily follows Suga to...wherever it is he’s taking him to—which Kenma soon discovers is a gym. 

A beautiful gym. A beautiful gym made to play volleyball. 

He swallows—memories and nerves firing in his brain.

“This is—do you guys all go here too?” 

“No, not everyone. Just me, Kuroo, and Daichi. I wish the other guys were here. But we can’t always get what we want.” 

“What school do the others go to?” 

“Well, they’re all over the palace. Southside, Logan, West Loop, River North, Gold Coast. We’re a mixed bunch,” he says, leading Kenma to a bench close to the bathroom. Suga goes inside, rustles for a bit, and then finally emerges with a first aid kit and cup of water. “Here,” he says, handing him a packet of aspirin. “I know that shit can’t feel good,” he smirks. 

It’s an addictive smirk, for sure. Suga is quite the looker, with his dazzling silver hair and muddy eyes. He has a small build for a volleyball player, but his arms tell you he’s server—and probably an experienced one at that. 

“How’d you guys meet?” 

“Volleyball. Tournaments, local games. Eventually, we just connected and clicked, and bam, now I have a family.” Kenma nods, wincing and cursing when Suga pats an alcohol swab on the cut sliced deep into his eyebrow. “You gonna tell me what happened?” 

Kenma scoffs. “Fuck no.” 

Suga laughs. “Figured.” Kenma grins. “Hey, you plan to come play with us someday? I know you’re a player.” 

“And how do you know that?” 

“We have similar builds, you and I. We’re not big, but we’re lean. A kind of lean that only comes from smacking a ball for hours a day for years.” Kenma locks eyes with the setter. “So, you do play.” 

Kenma grunts, from both submission and pain. “ _ Played _ . Haven’t in awhile.” 

“What’s a while?” 

“Hm. About a year.” 

“Why’d you stop?” 

“Reasons,” Kenma says, slapping Suga’s hand away and the older boy sighs. “Look, I let you help me fix my face. And I appreciate it. But the questions need to stop, okay?” 

Suga holds his hands up. “Okay, okay. My apologies. But, best not put your hands on me, again, okay?” 

Kenma laughs. “Please, what are you gonna do?” 

“Not him, but  _ me _ ,” a rough, furious voice barks from behind, and both look to find Daichi fuming. Like actual smoke coming out of actual ears. Daichi’s a big dude, robust and set in all the places that matter, and Kenma wishes he made note of this fact last night. “Touch him again, and I promise, I’ll break the rest of your face.” 

Kenma gulps, and Suga nods. “Warned ya.” 

“Look at me, what am  _ I _ really gonna be able to do to  _ him _ ?” Kenma gestures to Suga, and after a few minutes of silence, finally, all three boys break into soft laughter. 

Daichi comes closer to examine Kenma’s face. “Guys in your neighborhood, or your dad?” Kenma’s lips part. “Ah, bingo,” Daichi mumbles apologetically, and Suga, he just pouts.

“Damn, your dad did this?” 

“Step-dad.” 

“Yikes,” Daichi hisses, scratching his head. 

“Yep.” 

“Kuroo see him yet?” 

Suga shakes his head. 

“Kuroo really got anger problems that bad?” 

“Not anger problems, no. He just leans more towards the protective side than most. Especially if you’re in his circle.” 

“I see,” Kenma mumbles. 

“He’s a fighter on the side. MMA. Helps get his anger out.” 

“Thought you said he doesn’t have anger problems?”

“He doesn’t! He’s just uh, prone to winning.” 

“Huh.” 

“He likes you,” Daichi says, arms crossing over his massive, massive chest. “Haven’t seen him bring someone new around in awhile.” 

Nervously, he plays with his fingers while Suga gets back to work on his face. “Likes me? Like…”

“Like he likes your face and probably wants to do stuff to it, yeah.” 

Suga snorts. It’s precious. 

Kenma coughs and gestures between Suga and Daichi. “So you guys? Are you—” 

“Hitched, baby,” Daichi says, running a hand down Suga’s cheek. Gentle. So...so gentle. 

“Been dating, what, three years now?” Suga questions. 

“Don’t act like you don’t know,” Daichi says, leaning to kiss Suga’s cheek. Daichi eyes Kenma. “You have a problem with that?” 

Kenma smiles. “Seeing as I also swing in your direction, no. I don’t.” 

“Hmm, so Asahi was right,” Suga winks. 

“He always is, that bastard.” 

Kenma laughs. “Asahi too?” 

“Honestly, all those guys you met yesterday? Gay.”

“You’re joking?” 

Suga’s laughing harder than expected. “It’s wild, right? Seems like it's something out of a fan-fic or something. And get this, each of them are dating someone else.” 

“Like, each of you guys are a couple?” 

Suga nods. “Oh yeah.”

Daichi agrees. “Doesn’t seem plausible, huh?” 

“But here we are, the gay parade,” Suga giggles, and Daichi just watches him, lovingly and proud. “It’s nice. We stand up for each other. It’s a good group.” 

“You guys do seem...good. Together.”

Suga looks back at Daichi, warm eyes and soft lips. “Yeah. I’d say we are.” 

Daichi hums, a light blush flooding his plump cheeks. 

The bell rings overhead, the buzz of footsteps and conversation alive beyond the gymnasium doors. Daichi picks up his bag and shimmies into his straps. “Well, I’m off. World history 101 is a bitch.”

“You wanna be a history teacher, Dai.” 

“Still sucks though,” he says as he bounces off. “Best of luck for when Kuroo see’s you!” he waves before kicking open the doors to the main hallway. 

Suga shakes his head. “I don’t know what I see in him,” he says, as he plasters the last bit of ointment onto Kenma’s face. 

“I do.” 

Suga gasps. “You back off, Kenma.” Kenma chucks a genuine laugh, and Suga beams. “That’s nice. You have a nice laugh.” 

Kenma just nods and collects his bag. “Thank you, for this,” he points to his face. 

“I’m sorry. For what your old man did.” 

Kenma shrugs. “Are you guys playing today?” 

“If not playing, drinking,” Suga says. “You’re welcome to join. We always need more players,” he yells at Kenma as he walks away. 

“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbles, happy to get lost within the crowds. 

Happy to just be lost. 

***

For a school known for its prestige, the food is awful. Stale bread, watery beans, unsalted veggies. Kenma knows bad food, tasted it in jail, tasted it at home—his cooking ain’t nothing to brag about either—but damn, this stuff puts prison meals to utter shame. 

Pushing his plate away, Kenma scratches at his arm, eyes trailing to his palms where his fingers drag. 

_ Volleyball, huh?  _

He’d be a liar if he said he didn’t miss it. The intensity, the pain, the thrill of a win. He misses the people and the matches that went late into the night. He misses the smell of the ball on his hands, the taste of his own sweat on his lips, misses how it felt to feel powerful. 

He wrings his hands together and leans his head into those empty, uncalloused palms. All those years, crafting blisters and thick skin—gone. Gone for a year. 

Gone, just like his—

“Kenma.” 

He looks up, up into the hurt, fiery face of Kuroo. A very angry, very obviously riled Kuroo. “Uh, hey.” 

“Yeah, hey!” he yells, arms gesturing wide. “What the fuck!” 

“What?” 

“Your face? You’re—what the  _ fuck _ ?” he says, coming around the table to meet him, long legs saddling the chair beside Kenma. Long, sculpted legs. 

“Yeah. I—I fell.” 

“You fucking _ fell _ ?”

“I fell.” 

“Suga was right! You’re a liar is what you are!” 

“Kuroo—”

“Well? Who was it?” 

Kenma rolls his eyes. “Kuroo, please.” 

“Who beat the fuck out of you and why didn’t you stop them?” 

Gesturing to himself, “Have you seen me lately? Unlike you and Asahi, I’m sorely lacking in the height department. And the...muscle department.” 

“So what? You’ve got spunk, I’ve seen it! Use it!” 

“No.” 

“No?” 

“No!” he screams, anger spewing from his mouth like spit. “ _ No _ ,” he hisses. “Drop it.” 

“No.” 

Kenma yanks at his bleached hair, at the split ends. “You’re driving me up a fucking wall,” he says, jumping to his feet. 

“Oh, am I?” 

“Yes.”

“Why?” 

“Because you’re not fucking mother! You’re not my friend, you’re not my brother. You’re fucking no one! We met yesterday. So how about you back off and leave me alone!” 

He’s standing, his height still nothing compared to Kuroo even when seated, and he’s seething. He’s hot, and he’s manic, and….he knows this. He knows this rollercoaster happening inside his head. Knows it because after his mother killed herself and after he learned of her disease, he knew exactly what it was that lived inside him too. That had lived inside of him all along. 

Kuroo on the other hand, is blank. He’s blank and calm, and everything opposite of what Suga and Daichi warned him about. 

Kenma looks around the room and relaxes his fists. 

“Are you done now?” 

A moment passes. Another. 

Kenma sighs and falls back into his chair. “Yes.”

“Good. Come out with us today.” 

Confused, Kenma bites his lip. “What?” 

“Come with me, after school. I want you to...know the guys. To know me.” 

“Why?”

“I like you.” 

He scoffs. “Yeah, I’ve been told.” 

“Damn,” Kuroo leans his chin with pursed lips. “Daichi. Daichi told you, huh?” 

Kenma says nothing. He only stares at this mystery that is Kuroo Tetsurō, absolutely astonished that someone like this actually exists. Actually breathes and takes up space. “You’re...something else.” 

Kuroo leans, eyes narrow but filled with intent as he studies Kenma with painstaking attention. “I am also very interested in you, Kenma.” 

_ Someone this large, this monumental—what the hell is he doing with me? _

“Why?” 

“How could I not be?” 

Kenma doesn’t realize how close they are until Kuroo’s soft breath tickles against his nose, his breath hot with something citrusy but sour. Has he ever been this close to someone like this, in this way? 

“So. Will you come with me?” 

Kenma, picking at the lip of the bandaid plastered to his eyebrow smirks, “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll come with you.” 

***

Kenma was right, Hinata and Kageyama together are completely unstoppable. Their quick move—a move unlike anything Kenma has ever seen—would blow any player out of the water, and as Kenma watches them, he knows they know that too. 

And Noya? Kid’s fearless, every slide, every leap, every hit, is raw and almost unstable in nature. But never does he fail to get where he needs to be, and never is Asahi too far from wherever he is. 

Kenma can see now what he was ignorant too before. Suga was right—these guys are all as gay as fuck. 

Tooru and Hajime. 

Hinata and Kageyama. 

Noya and Asahi.

Yama and Tsukki. All gay. 

So, where was Kuroo’s pair? His match? 

Beside him, Yamaguchi is swallowing water as if he’s been trapped in the desert for years. He’s topless, and even for a smaller kid, he’s built. He’s tone, has strength where it’s needed, but above that, he’s peaceful. There’s nothing violent or hard that lives in him. 

Bet he’s the kid from Gold Coast. 

“What are you looking at?” 

Kenma looks up, and up, and up some more at the taller boy oddly named Tsukki. His fists are balled, cut, dry—he, on the other hand, is not from Gold Coast. 

“Easy. Your boy is about to drown himself. I was just making sure he’s okay.”

“Oh, I always drink like this. I am prone to dehydration.”

“Yeah, you’re also prone to being a pain in my ass,” mumbles Tsukki as he walks to him and ruffles Yama’s hair, kissing his forehead hard, but slow. “It's Kenma, right?” 

“Right.” 

Tsukki spits, and Yamaguchi cringes. “Where you from?” 

Kenma swallows, sniffling. “Fuller.” 

Yama stops drinking his water. 

“Damn. Nice to meet you, Fuller,” Tsukki says, holding out his hand. “I’m Grand Crossing.” 

Kenma looks up, cigarette hanging between his fingers. “Grand?” he eyes the kid, can smell the kid, can see the kid walking around that neighborhood. “Since?” 

“Born and raised. You?” 

“Born and bred. Life’s a bitch, huh?” he says, shaking Tsukki’s hand, getting the smallest of smiles Kenma can already tell are hard to come by. “How long you two been—”

Yama stutters, “Oh! No, we’re not...we um—”

“Hey Yama, we need a set! Come h-help,” Hinata burps drunk from the court, and Yamaguchi doesn’t hesitate to get the hell out of there when called. 

Kenma looks back to Tsukki who just waves him off. “Yeah, yeah. I know.” 

“Is he not out?” 

“No, I’m not.” 

“But Suga said—”

“Yeah, Suga knows. The guys know. But, you’re not there yet, and Yama knows how I feel about it.”

Kenma nods. “I see.” 

“Do you?” Tsukki kneels, and damn, if he isn’t still intimidating when low into a crouch. “Daichi told me you laid your hands on Suga. Let me tell you, that don’t fly, new kid. That really doesn't fly.” 

Kenma’s anger spirals, the Southside kid in him raging beneath his shy flesh as he jumps to his feet. “Fuck this. Fuck all this _anger_ you gay crybabies have. Fuck the judgements, okay, you don’t know me. You don’t know my life, or who I am.” 

Tsukki stands, leaning as he gets in Kenma’s face. “Oh, I think any of us here might know you, it’s me, Fuller Park.” 

“Please. Grand Crossing is a fucking vacation compared to Fuller, and you damn well know it,” he bites, eyes red as they lock onto Tsukki’s. 

But then—

Kuroo shoves between them, hands pressed to Tsukki’s chest as the kid is thrown backwards. Tsukki catches himself, Yamaguchi running to his side as all the laughter on the court ceases. 

“What the fuck, Kuroo?” 

“Don’t touch him.” 

Kenma whines, “I can handle myself.” 

Kuroo, growling, “Oh, can you?” 

“Tell your boyfriend to get out of my face, Kur.” 

“Tsukki, will you just chill,” Noya calls from the court. “Have some whiskey and settle this shit later, yeah?” 

“This kid ain't shit to me. You ain't shit to any of us, you little midget bitch.” 

Kuroo again, pushes Tsukki back, this time harder, and with more emotion. “Don’t make me repeat myself.” 

“You’re serious right now? You’re picking small cock here over me?” 

“With how you’re acting right now, you bet I am!” 

Tsukki storms towards Kuroo, their heights more equally matched and Kenma—Kenma actually feels himself cower. “You think cause you can beat up those pricks over in Logan in a fight that I’m afraid of you, Kuroo? You’re not as tough as you—”

Then suddenly, Kuroo is swinging, swinging his fists right into Tsukki’s jaw, and Yamaguchi yells. He yells a Gold Coast yell, and Kenma almost laughs. 

But he can’t, not as he sees the blood covering Kuroo’s knuckles. He moves in a flash, peeling off his sweatshirt to wrap around Kuroo’s fist—and Kuroo lets him. 

“Damn, how hard did you hit him?” 

“Eh, I had old scabs,” he hisses as Kenma tightens his hold on Kuroo’s fist. Their eyes meet, eyes growing softer by the second. 

“You’re being a dick, Kuroo,” Tooru says as he walks for Tsukki. “He’s right and you know it,” he snaps, eyes jolting to Kenma, then back to Kuroo. 

“So, let me get this straight,” he says, pulling away from Kenma to walk to Tooru. “When you brought Hajime here, his testosterone cocked and loaded and ready to fight when he tried getting in Kageyama’s face, that’s fine? But when Tsukki starts shit with Kenma, it’s a different story?”

“Hey, I apologized, dude!” Hajime offers from the sand. 

“Shut up, Haj!”

“Kuroo,” Hinata whines. 

“No, this is bullshit, and you all know it.” Silence falls, and Kuroo goes still. He grabs Kenma’s hand. “Come on, let’s go. You’re right. Fuck this.” 

Kenma allows himself to be dragged away, catching the sad eyes of Suga as he looks back one more time.

One more time, because once again, he fucked up something good. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, friends! 
> 
> Thank you guys for all the nice words thus far! Truly, I appreciate it more than you know! <3 
> 
> I'm gonna try to pump out another chapter for you today since I'm going backpacking this weekend and will have no tech with me...because nature. I hope y'all have a good weekend, and enjoy!

**FIFTEEN YEARS OLD**

Kuroo’s hand just won't stop bleeding. Kenma’s done everything he often has to do to himself; elevate, pressurize, all that medical bullshit he watches the EMT’s do whenever they come to patch up someone from his neighborhood. 

So what the fuck is Kenma doing wrong? 

He and Kuroo are in the parking lot of a dimly lit grocery store named Ralph’s, both quiet and still while perched on the curb outside the front doors. The store was empty besides the rotting old lady behind the counter hating her life, her job, her status. She’d eyed them when they tossed their purchases onto the counter; a bag of frozen peas, duct tape, Neosporin. 

Both boys were laughing when they left with their items through the motorized revolving door. 

Now on the curb beneath the haze and fog of Chicago’s electric pollution, Kenma dabs ointment onto the cuts that really matter, Kuroo unfazed by the pain Kenma knows he must be feeling. 

But instead, he’s just staring, out and beyond the empty parking lot, beyond the street, just...beyond. 

Kenma smacks the bag of peas onto his knuckles, and it’s then that Kuroo looms down, watching as Kenma loops duct tape around the bag to hold it in place, and again, Kuroo is laughing—a laugh subtle but deadly attractive. 

“Where’d you learn this trick, Dr. Oz?” 

Kenma shrugs. “A movie.” 

“Oh, I’m in good hands then, huh?” 

Kenma lifts Kuroo’s hand. “You see this? This is med school 101. You’re in the best of hands, my friend.” 

Kuroo smirks, a thumb running over his bottom lip—his thin lips, hard lips, lips Kenma wonders how many others have kissed. “You’ve got a temper too, don’t you?” 

Kenma rests Kuroo’s duct taped hand into his lap and sighs, leaning back onto his palms while eying the sky above. “Actually, no. No. I usually don’t.” 

“Is that so?” 

Kenma shakes his hand. “No. I...actually didn’t really even find my voice until this year, I’d say. Never really talked much before.” 

“Oh, well that must have been nice!” 

“Shut up, you prick,” he plays, nudging Kuroo’s shoulder. 

“So, when’d you start talking?” 

Kenma reaches for the beer he’d also stolen, swigging it between his cheeks before admitting, “When you came up to me at school.” 

Kuroo looks over, lips parted. Those damn lips. “You uh, seemed to be able to talk to Shaw just fine.” 

“Eh, academics don’t make me nervous. That I know. That I can find an answer to, I can solve it, I’m sort of in control with that. But communicating in general? That’s different. I can’t...control what someone is gonna say, or why they’re gonna say it. Can’t control how my brain is gonna take it. Must have been something I got from my mother.” 

“Your mother? You guys close?” 

Kenma shakes his head, swigs his beer. “Nah, she’s dead.” 

Kuroo stills, eyes darting between the sky and the streetlights. “Huh.” 

“Yeah.” 

“Damn. Well, since when?” 

“Last year.” 

“Last year? Kenma, that’s—fuck, I’m sorry.” 

“Yeah, whatever. I mean, she did it to herself, you know?” 

Kuroo runs a hand through his hair, strands falling into his wide, attentive eyes, and Kenma gulps. 

What would his mother have thought of Kuroo? 

“Holy shit, suicide?” Kenma just nods, his lips seemingly stuck to the lip of his PBR. “I’m...Kenma—” 

He shakes it off, drinks more. “Yeah, yeah. Like I said, it’s whatever.” 

“Hey,” Kuroo says, a hand coming to rest on Kenma’s forearm, and the touch is….more than Kenma was ready for. Probably more than he’ll ever be ready for when it comes to Kuroo. “You don’t have to...act like this, all the time, with me.” 

Kenma sets his beer down. “Like what?” he bites, that anger he never had before bubbling. 

“Like that. Like I’m trying to attack you with questions and...compassion. I’m not. I’m trying to, to know you. To know who you are.” 

“Well, you’re in for a lot, buddy.” 

“Okay, then tell me that. Tell me why. Tell me what’s happened to you—” 

“Kuroo, this is a lot, okay? You’re being  _ a lot _ , man.” He crushes the empty PBR in his hand and chucks it, missing the trash can by a few hundred centimeters. 

“No one’s ever asked about you before, have they?” 

Kenma rolls his small, tired eyes. “What?” 

“You. I mean, nobody’s probably ever been interested in you, right? You know, besides your mother, but—”

“Yeah, but my mother is fucking _ dead _ ." Kenma pauses, allowing Kuroo a moment to brace himself for what's coming. "She sliced her arms open and stained my bathroom floor, and she’s  _ fucking dead _ . And yeah, you’re right. No one's interested in the fucking Fuller Park slum. No, Kuroo, no one’s ever fucking asked how my day was or where I’ve been. No one’s ever washed my sheets or drove me to school because I’ve never had a fucking car,” he hisses, his accent heavily pronounced with each fired word he spits. “You know, thanks,” he says, standing and slinging his backpack over his shoulder. “Thanks for the talk, thanks for punching your friend in the face for me, thanks for...I don’t know, the company. But, this is enough. Okay? You go back to your gays, and I’ll go back to my step-dad and his hooker, and let’s just call this what it is, alright?” 

Kuroo stands now, his forehead pressed to Kenma’s, his spine bent as he leans to capture Kenma’s attention. “And what is this, Kenma, huh? What is this?” 

“A mistake," he stammers, just...staring up at Kuroo like he isn't the most beautiful person to ever exists. Like Kenma isn't undeniably drawn to him. But nonetheless, he reassures, "This, us, whatever is happening...it’s a fucking mistake—” 

But he doesn’t finish. He can’t. Not with Kuroo’s wet, supple lips pressed hard and sure against Kenma’s smaller ones. Lips which will never compare or be good enough for Kuroo’s. 

But here they are. Kuroo’s hand cupping Kenma’s cheeks, Kenma moaning beneath him, weak kneed and frazzled and so fucking warm, he feels like his flesh is melting. 

He’s never been kissed like this, where every move made is something that matters. Where there was something more beyond it besides the other person needing a good orgasm or a quick pick-me-up. He’s never been kissed where it was just for him, even if it was just to shut him up. 

Kuroo is kissing him like he was meant to be kissed this way, as if it was deserved, as if he deserves something beyond abuse or rage, but instead, care and time and notice. 

Even though he’s never kissed like this in his life, kissing Kuroo is so unnaturally...natural. There’s no missteps or mistakes being made. There’s no awkward bumping of teeth or tongues. There’s nothing that makes what they’re doing seem like anything else but what it is—perfect. 

Absolute, mind-blowing, fucking perfection. 

Kuroo smells of lemongrass and mahogany, scents that shouldn’t blend together, but for Kuroo, they do, and Kenma is addicted. Addicted to the taste of Kuroo’s tongue, to his odd, blended scent, to the way his thumb keeps trailing up and down his soft jawline.  And just like how Daichi kissed Suga in this gym, Kenma imagines that this is what that kiss must have felt like too. So gentle that it feels as if they’ve blended into one being. 

Kuroo finally pulls away, both boys gasping, but still connected by touch and foreheads. Kenma looks up, up into Kuroo’s eyes, eyes damn near bloodshot, as if sad—but there’s no way he could be sad about  _ that _ , right? 

“Kuroo?” Kenma’s voice is a whisper, and softer than he’s ever heard himself sound. 

“Sorry,” he hums back, sniffling. “I’m sorry, this isn’t because—that kiss was ground-shaking.” 

Kenma now strokes Kuroo’s cheek, now touching him in that gentle way Kuroo touched him. ‘What is it? Did I...I did it wrong, huh?” 

Kuroo laughs, fast and genuine. “No, you...absolutely did not do it wrong,” he says, kissing Kenma’s forehead. “I’m just—a lot. You’re right. This is a lot.” 

Kenma shakes his head. “I was stupid to say that.” 

“No, you weren’t. We’re both—we have things. Lives and issues the other doesn’t know about yet. It’s complicated. It was bound to be, yeah?” 

Kenma nods, slow and yes, sad. “Yeah. I guess.” 

Kuroo kisses him again. His forehead, his cheek, before he picks up his backpack too and faces Kenma. “Can I walk you home?” 

Kenma scoffs. “Fuck off, man.” 

“Kenma.” And that alone stills him, shakes him enough to stop and realize just how fucking ridiculous harboring all this hard, inbred anger actually is. “Stop. Please. Just….not with me, okay? You don’t have to be…”

Kuroo doesn’t need to finish. Kenma gets it. “Okay. Okay.” 

“Okay.” 

Kenma taps his toe on the concrete, and Kuroo laughs. “I do that too.” 

Kenma nibbles his lip. “I know. I’ve noticed.” Kuroo tilts his head curiously. “Your shoes.”

“Ah. My giveaway.” Kenma just nods. 

Kuroo comes close again, his make-shift ice pack crinkling as he offers his hand. “Can I walk you home?” 

_ No. Ryu.  _ “You can walk me to the train.” 

Kuroo nods. “I’ll take what I can get.” 

And Kenma—Kenma guesses that from now on, in return, he will give all he can. 

***

He wakes up to bills being tossed into his face. 

Well, not tossed. But slapped, repeatedly until he wakes up. 

“What the fuck, Ryu!” 

“You tell me,” he burps, scratching his fat ass, the animal. “What the hell are these?” 

Kenma, his vision blurred because of his eye boogers, rubs his eyes until the bills can be read clearly. “Electric and gas.” He tosses them at Ryu's feet. 

“Yeah, no shit. Why aren’t they paid?” 

Kenma peers up at Ryu. “Excuse me?” 

“Get a job, you lazy shit.” 

“A—A job?  _ Me _ ?” he says, trailing after Ryu as he clomps towards the bathroom like a drunk college student. “What about your disability? Where’s that money?” 

“Ah, none of your business,” he waves off before pulling his cock out for a piss. 

“You get $600 a month to sit on your ass, fuck your hooker, and drink beer! So, where’s that money, Ryu, huh? And don’t you dare try to tell me you spent $600 on booze!”

“My money, I do with it what I please.” 

Kenma is on fire, the bloody flames beneath his skin screaming for Kenma to beat the fuck out of this man right here. Right here, on the same tile where his mother took her life. In this same house where he’ll never escape from. 

“Ryu. You pay those bills, or you get the fuck out.” 

Eerily slow, Ryu turns to face Kenma, hellfire and rage building behind his droopy, drunk morning eyes. “What did you just say?” 

Kenma straightens his spine, even though every bone is telling him to run. “I own this house. It’s in my name. You want a roof over your head? Then pay the bills. If not, I’m calling to the cops, and I’ll have  _ them _ drag your sorry ass out into the street, you fat fuck!” 

Kenma doesn’t recognize his own voice, doesn’t recognize the confidence. But, he likes it. Even though he’s scared shitless. 

Ryu shoves his dick back into his boxers and reaches for the medicine cabinet, tossing pill bottle after pill bottle into Kenma’s face until finally, he catches one. 

“Why are you throwing my Clozapine at me?” 

“Who the fuck do you think pays for these, huh?”

“Oh, please—”

“My hooker of a girlfriend, THAT’S WHO! Sheila dances her ass off every night, every damn night, so that we can keep medicating your crazy ass!” 

“WHY? Why make her do it when  _ you _ could get a job!”

“Look who’s talking, you little shit…”

“Oh, no.  _ No _ . We agreed! We agreed when mom died that  _ my job _ would be high school. My job would be grades and education so that one day, I can get out of here, get a good job, and better  _ our _ lives, beyond this fucking shit show of an existence!” 

“School ain’t no job—”

“You agreed, Ryu! You told mom you’d stay around!” 

“That was before I knew—knew you were like her!”

Like her. Bi-polar and fucked.  Kenma looks at the pill bottle in his hand, wondering if his mother ever stood in this exact spot, screaming this exact conversation with this low-life. He wonders if she felt this way last year. When she was alone and sad and tired. 

So, so tired. 

“Well, of course you did. Of course, so that you can collect those pretty little government checks with my name on it. But fuck, Ryu," he says, an exhaustion now filling his lungs that it seems, Ryu notices. "Fuck, I’m fifteen, almost sixteen! And I can't—" he inhales, long and slow and....he's so tired. "So maybe, just maybe, think about getting your shit together so I don’t have to for everyone.” 

Kenma turns to leave the bathroom when Ryu mumbles, “I stayed for her. Not you.” 

Kenma stops in the middle of the hallway. 

“Well, no shit.” He slams his door, but he doesn't get ready for school. 

***

**TWO DAYS LATER**

Asahi shoves Tsukki forward, the boy growling like an actual pit-bull as he stands before Kenma scratching his neck. 

“Go on,” Yama encourages from behind, smiling like a schoolgirl, and Kenma fights the urge to roll his eyes. 

Tsukki shakes him off, but finally, looks at Kenma. “I’m sorry I was a dick.”

“And?” Kuroo urges while perched against a light post. 

“You’re always welcome to...chill, or whatever. I won’t fuck with you.”

“None of us will,” Hajime injects, and Kenma’s eyes dart. 

“Uh, I mean, I really don’t wanna cause—”

“What happened was stupid, and unnecessary,” Suga says as he comes and hangs over Kenma’s shoulders. “We don’t want you to think that’s what we are. A bunch of hormonal gays who can’t control their tempers. We’re not. We’re just—” 

“From Chicago,” Kenma says, and everyone cheers and easily agrees to that, and so Kenma allows himself a smile. 

“Chicago kids, for sure,” seconds Kuroo as he comes behind Kenma, planting a kiss in his hair, and Kenma can’t help but melt into it, into Kuroo and his unrelenting warmth. “Just stick around, yeah?” he whispers, a comment for only Kenma to hear. 

He nods, and looks up into Kuroo’s smiling face. 

“We do have _one_ request from you,” Daichi says, hugging his boyfriend from behind. 

“Oh, and what’s that?” 

But before he knows it, Noya is tossing a volleyball into his hands. 

The feel is so familiar, Kenma almost gasps. His fingers tighten around the ball, the leather stitching into his flesh, into his memories of what it felt like to play, to win, to feel strong. He stares at the ball with a smile before giving that same smile to the boys now huddled around him. 

He sighs and tosses the ball to Tsukki. “Fine. One game.” 

But even Kenma in this moment knows that from this day forward, there will be many, many more games to come.

***

Kenma definitely forgot what it felt like to be genuinely sore. Like the muscles crying, spine popping, feet raw kind of sore he used to crave so much not too long ago, and for the first time in a long time, Kenma realizes that he's... _feeling_. 

It's been happening more and more as of late, with Kuroo coming into his life, with the way school pushes him, and now with this. With volleyball and the drive it gives him. He's been feeling emotions he simply assumed he's lost alongside the loss of his mother, emotions akin to joy and longing. He's remembering what it feels like to have actual excitement for something, excitement beyond being able to sleep late or enjoy silence when at home.

No, as of late, he wants to be out. He wants to be active and involved, which is something Kenma hasn't know for months now—and so this is how he finds himself staring at Kuroo, watching his play, watching his muscles flex and his smile engulf the court, listening as he curses and promises and laughs. 

There's an air around Kuroo unlike anything Kenma's ever known before. It's a carefree kinda air, an aura which screams, "I'm here and that's okay, and you should be so blessed," but even as he thinks it, Kenma's laughing. Because, like himself, Kenma can already notice that beyond his displayed facade, Kuroo too is hurting from something. He feels it, sees the sadness in his eyes sometimes when Kenma dares to say something which resembles a compliment. He can see it in Kuroo's shadow, the looming weight of something that Kenma just...hasn't been allowed to see yet, and he's okay with that. He's okay with coming to know Kuroo slowly—as long as he gets to know him and share his space, Kenma is fine with whatever he's allowed to receive. 

He's so wrapped up in Kuroo and his allure that Kenma doesn't notice that Hinata is now seated beside him, the short kid giddy with eyes invasively attentive to the game, and his boyfriend. 

Kenma jumps, and Hinata giggles. "Sorry. Didn't mean to spook ya."  Kenma waves him off and leans back against the bench, his cold hands shoving into his hoodie pocket. "You're good. Like, you're really good." 

Kenma nods. "Uh, thank you." 

"You've played awhile, huh?" 

"Yep." 

"Since?" 

_All the damn questions these kids ask._ "Since I was five." 

"Woah, long time! I think I first touched a ball in middle school. Probably around eleven or twelve years old? Don't remember really. Just remember how much I liked it." 

_Kid talks a lot._ "You talk a lot." 

"Ha! Yeah, yeah. I do. Tobio used to hate me for it. But now, he's wrapped around my finger," he whispers, and Kenma can't help but smile. At least a bit. 

"When did you guys start dating?" 

"Hmm....it's been about four years since we met, two since we started smacking lips." Kenma's brow furrows. "He's a character, that one. Deals with me though. I'm grateful. As you can see, I got this ugh....energy problem. ADHD. You heard of it?" 

Hell, of course he has. "Yep." 

"Yeah, it's a bitch, dude. I just...can't calm down sometimes, you know? Like, my brain just don't wanna shut off," he says, chugging from a gatorade bottle. 

"You take meds?"

"Mhmm. A few kinds. They gotta work together, you know?"  Kenma just....nods. Because yes, he definitely knows. "so, you must really like Kuroo, huh, to be dealing with all of us like this." 

Kenma coughs. "You guys aren't all that bad." 

"Ha! A few of us are harder than others. That's for sure. Tobio being one of them. Kid is more stubborn than a Mexican bull. But...he's saved my ass ore than once. More than twice." 

Kenma finds himself curious. "What do you mean?" 

Hinata shrugs. "You probably understand this too, but, people like to mess with the little guy. Especially when the little guy gets annoying when he refuses to take his meds cause he's a kid and he too, is stubborn." 

"Ah. I see." 

"Yep yep."

"I'm sorry. Bully's—they suck." 

"Yes, they do." Hinata leans with his his elbows on his knees, watching his boyfriend with wet, mesmerized eyes. "But next to Tobio, no one dares to fuck with me anymore. He's kill anyone who tries. Almost has a few times." 

"That's good." 

"Yeah, it's good. until the one time where he goes too far."

"You think he would?" 

Hinata hums. "I know he would." Hinata sits back up and stretches his arms before slapping Kenma's knee. "One thing's for sure about this group, Kenma. He have each other's backs. Always. No matter the situation. So as long as we like ya, and you stick around, I promise, you've got allies. Always." 

Kenma scratches his nose, "Well, uh, thanks. I appreciate that then." 

"Good! Now come on, let's go play!" 

And so Kenma does, allowing himself to be dragged onto the court, and tossed around like a frisbee, eventually lading happily in Kuroo's arms. 

And so for now, he allows himself this moment of happiness. He allows the laughter and the ease of the group, the joy of the game and the peace of it all—knowing that usually, that happiness finds a way to fade away right when Kenma least expects it too. 


End file.
